Here and there somebody gives me a tip. A quarter here. A dollar there. Nothing big, but a dollar is still a dollar - not a loonie, or a euro, but what can you do? - and change adds up.
This off-the-wall, scattered-brain chick pulls up the other night. Her total came to $4.51. I think that she ordered a small French vanilla cappuccino and maybe a turkey sandwich - whatever.
She arrives at the window and hands me a twenty. Before I have time to grab her change she pulls out into the darkness like a vampire bat after a giraffe - that's a lot of neck, you know? - and I'm standing there with $15.49 in my mitts.
I know that I'm good, but $15. 49 good? I'm not so sure.
The Sensible Skinhead tells me that I should hand it over to the police department and if no one claims it in 48 hours then it's rightfully mine.
"Do people do that?" I ask him.
"I think so," he answers.
"I'll split it with you," I say. "And then forget about it."
"Sounds good to me," he says.
I give him a five and keep the rest.